27

August 11–12, 1609

SAMUEL COLLIER RETURNED to James Towne in July at the request of John Smith, not flayed or half dead but seeming healthy and tattooed with some marks peculiar to the Powhatans. His red hair was cut short and the blemishes on his face had disappeared. He had gained a fair knowledge of the language of the natives but had lost his curt personality, and a cautious silence had taken its place. Nat was not displeased to see his old hut-mate, but Samuel seemed to have less interest in complaining about day-to-day events, which took much of the fun out of having the page around. Samuel moved back into Nat’s hut, but spent most of his time by Smith’s side, sharing what he had learned. Nat picked up some words which he hoped to try out secretly with Laughing Boy if the chance came, wingapo—“welcome,” chespin—“land,” rawcosowghs—“days,” toppqough—“nights,” netoppew—“friends,” but refused to directly ask that Samuel tutor him. One night, when he could no longer hold his question, he called to Samuel from his cot, “Did you see Richard Mutton among the natives? He has been gone a long time, but I wonder if he is still alive.”

“No,” said Samuel matter-of-factly. “I did not see him. There are at least thirty-two tribes under the Powhatan. Forget Richard. His fate is known only to God.”

Gabriel Archer left Virginia in midsummer, back to England to obtain more settlers and supplies, but the ever-arrogant Edward Maria Wingfield was still in the settlement, and Nat often saw him huddling together with the young gentleman George Percy down by the river as if they were plotting. Smith had not been hanged back in the West Indies as planned. Would these men try again to take revenge against the captain? Would they strangle Smith in the night? Would they stab Smith behind the storehouse?

Heat, flies, bad food, and jealousy were a perilous combination.

Pocahontas, who had visited the fort throughout the spring of the year, had not been back in a while. Nat wondered if the Powhatans were angry once more with the Englishmen. It was difficult to know when they would be friendly and when they would not, although John Smith had usually been able to make temporary peace with his ability to converse and reason. The Powhatans had different views on the use of land. According to Smith and now Samuel, they believed that the land could not be owned by anyone, that one might as well try to buy the sky and the sun. And so fear or anger would break out and there would be an attack. To most of the settlers, it seemed as if the natives acted on whim alone, but Nat knew English behavior must seem like whim to the natives. It was a relationship that seemed to have no clear answers. And the Englishmen, once again, were forced to rely on their own food supplies.

Nat had become an experienced gardener. He knew how deep to dig for planting beans and peas. He knew how to tend the new stalks of corn so they wouldn’t shrivel. He knew which insects would eat the plants and which would eat other insects. The men who had survived from the first year as well as the newer settlers watched him and listened to his advice.

“I beg your pardon, sir! Don’t pour that on the corn,” he shouted as one little bearded silversmith tipped over a bucket of water he’d drawn from the James River. “It’s got salt in it. It will stunt the growth. It is best if you use well water.”

The silversmith snarled, “Preposterous. We can’t spare well water for plants. We need it for drinking.”

“We need corn, sir. Please fill your bucket with well water.”

The man drew up his face as if he wanted to argue, but William Love, loosening the soil around the melon garden next to the corn, interrupted, shouting over the rail fence. “Nathaniel knows what he’s talking about. Do as he says.”

Grumbling, the silversmith left the corn garden and took his bucket past the new cottages and through the gate of the fort.

“Hello, Nat!” It was Ann Laydon, a basket on her arm half full of berries she had found in the brush at the edge of the clearing. The skin of her face and hands had grown red with the weather, and her belly was round beneath her skirts. She had a baby due in a few months. “Find any treasures under that corn?”

If no one had been within hearing distance, Nat would have scolded her severely. But he just sighed and looked back at his work. There was a little pleasure in knowing that it irritated Ann greatly to be ignored.

“Your skin has become as dark as a savage in this sun,” said Ann. “Does that mean you want to be like them?”

Nat rubbed a mosquito bite on his chest and chopped the soil around a corn plant with his spade, softening it and working out stones.

“Do you hear me, gardener?”

Nat pushed the loosened soil back around the plant.

Ann stomped her foot. “You are impolite indeed! Do you hear me?”

Nat walked to the next plant and began to chop.

“You’ll certainly never be a rich man nor a gentleman with your foul manners!” said Ann. She blew a noisy puff of air through her lips and wandered away.

It was all Nat could do to keep from laughing out loud. However, he could hear a chuckle from William Love nearby.

And then William’s chuckle stopped abruptly and the man said, “They have arrived!”

Another gardener in the corn replied, “God help us, they best have food. A lot of food.”

Nat dropped his own spade and put his hand to his forehead, shading out the glare of the sun. There, nearing the settlement on the sluggish James River, were five ships. More men, and perhaps women and children as well. This place was going to be overrun. As the gardener had said, they best have food. And a lot of it.

There were shouts from the cottages around the fort and from within. Those who were well enough to be up and off their cots were rallying around to greet the new arrivals. The inhabitants of James Towne clustered side by side by the water, staring at the newcomers.

“Which ships are these, now?”

“I see men waving from the deck. They best be in good health, I tell you. We don’t need any more folks who are ailing or dying.”

“Pray God the Company has at last sent us men who can work. Farmers, carpenters, surgeons, and cooks.”

“You think the Company knows how we fare in Virginia? If they sent us a farmer, I will give you my whole food ration for two days!”

Only the first ship, the largest one with a broken mast, was able to anchor close to the pier. The others dropped anchor behind it, and simultaneously, longboats were lowered. Bedraggled passengers climbed down the sides and into them with haste, like rats escaping a sinking vessel.

“Not surprising they are so eager to get off them stinking things,” said William, standing near Nat. “I remember arriving. Land was the most blessed thing to me when the trip was done.”

“Hmm,” said Nat.

“Only thing,” William continued, “they’ve no idea what they’re getting into here. They shall be anxious to climb back up and squeeze down that ’tween deck once they see what we have waiting for them here. Is not the lush pastures and sparkling streams we were promised, to be certain!”

Several other men chuckled sourly. Nat crossed his arms across his bare chest.

John Smith, who had been standing near the rear of the gathering, strode forward onto the pier to be the first to speak. He’d taken time to straighten his hat and the ruff of his collar. The man never ceased to look dignified when the need arose.

Several pairs of hands in the first longboat rose in greeting as the little boat touched the pier. “Hello, there!” called a man in the front. “God be praised, we have found you! God be praised, we have found James Towne!”

“God be praised if there’s ale aboard,” said the recovering Edward Pising. “I’ll drop to me knees in this mud and shout ‘glory, hallelujah!’ if we’ve good stout drink in them ships!”

Passengers in the longboat climbed onto the pier and bowed wearily, gratefully, to John Smith.

“Think there be girls with the men, Nathaniel Peacock?” came a shrill voice. “That should please you, I would think.” Ann was right next to him, standing at his shoulder. She wore a smirk on her face, and her hair was free around her shoulders, not pinned up properly.

“You only know what pleases yourself, Mistress Laydon,” said Nat quietly. “Now go to your husband. And make a decent style with that hair of yours. It seems as if you fancy the ways of the Powhatan women, with it hanging down like that.”

Ann’s face drew up and her eyes flashed. She whipped about and stormed over to John Laydon, who put his hand on her shoulder but otherwise didn’t seem to notice she was there. He continued to speak with the other men and nod in the direction of the ships on the river.

The other longboats docked at the pier and the passengers continued to unload. There were many men, and yes, a few women and several young children. With a surge of fear and anger, Nat noticed the sickness of more than half; they staggered, they coughed dark spittle onto the soil of James Towne. Some needed the aid of others to walk. Others were carried.

“What we needed was meat and bread,” cried Edward Pising. “Not half-dead, worthless people.”

Nat watched as the hoard walked, hobbled, and stumbled toward the gate of the palisade through the cluster of settlers. It was pitiful indeed, as Jehu Robinson would have said. Men clung to sick wives; children cried in their mothers’ arms. One young woman in a soiled blue gown and shabby velvet cape wept silently as she walked to the fort.

As a man passed, Nat asked, “Why does that woman weep? She does not appear ill as do many others.”

“Young Mistress Ford lost her husband on the journey over. He died of the sweating sickness and we dumped his body overboard. She is but eighteen years, had been married but a week before the ships left England, and is now a widow!” The man stroked his chin and cleared his throat. It was a rattly sound; this man was suffering with a lung problem himself. “But she is a stout one, she is. I’ve not seen her cry aloud nor tear her hair as some of the women have. Instead, she has shown nothing but kindness to others who suffered on the trip, giving them aid and comfort. What a disaster we have endured. Our flagship Sea Venture was blown off course and we fear they are lost.”

“Dreadful,” said Nat.

“Indeed,” said the man. He then extended his hand. “My name is Peter Scott. And this is my wife, Martha.” He motioned to the small-framed woman behind him, who nodded wearily at Nat. “God be praised, the three of us survived the ordeal on the sea.”

Three? Nat wondered. But then he noticed that Mistress Scott was pregnant. How would baby Scott and baby Laydon endure James Towne?

Nat gazed again at the stoic woman in the dirty blue gown as she followed the shabby assembly into the fortress. Then he went back to his spade in the cornfield. There was nothing to do but wait for the order to build more cottages and bury those who would die before the next morning.

William Love also returned to his work in the patch next to Nat’s. “Gabriel Archer and John Ratcliffe are back,” he said. “I’m certain John Smith would have rather they’d been two of the dead, tossed to the sharks in the depths of the sea.”

Nat didn’t answer. He chopped for a while, as fast as he could to make the muscles of his arms sting so he wouldn’t have to think. Shadows crawled across the ground and Nat chopped and smoothed and raked.

As he neared the corn plants close to the trees, something in the corner of his eye moved. Nat looked up. There, peering from behind the needled branches of a pine, was Laughing Boy. Nat’s mouth dropped open. He had not seen the Powhatan in nearly a year, and the change was amazing. Laughing Boy was muscular and very tall, no longer the thin child with whom Nat had explored. His hair was no longer plain, but adorned with shells and feathers. Perhaps he had grown into a warrior. Laughing Boy smiled and gestured for Nat come into the woods.

Nat shook his head. There were too many men around to chance leaving. But he pointed to the sun and then lowered his flattened palm. I will meet you when the sun sets.

Laughing Boy understood. He nodded, and then departed.

“It will be good to see him again,” Nat said to himself. “There is so much going on now with the new settlers, no one will miss me if I sneak away after dark.”

It was more difficult to leave at sunset than Nat had thought it would be. Smith had ordered all able-bodied men who were not posted as watch to either bury the dead, nurse the sick, or get to work planting posts for new houses. Even as it grew dark, he had men set many fires ablaze so they could see and continue digging holes and raising the skeletons of the huts. Soon moonlight added its glow and the work went on without pause.

Nat had never gone alone into the forest at night without a lantern. But if he were to take a light, he would be spotted, and so, with only the aid of the moon’s glow, he left James Towne and carefully made his way to the place he and Laughing Boy used to meet. Crickets and tree frogs mocked him. Their tiny, dry voices seemed to ask, “Why are you here? It’s dangerous. Go back. Go back.”

He picked up a thick stick and held it before him like a club.

Laughing Boy was not in the usual meeting place. Nat held the stick and sat on the ground after poking with the stick to make sure he didn’t sit on a snake. He waited. And waited.

After what seemed like an hour, Nat brushed himself off and prepared to return to James Towne. Maybe Laughing Boy hadn’t understood after all. Maybe he’d decided he really didn’t want to be friends with Nat. He felt his way along between the trees with the stick, straining to see in the waning moonlight.

The crickets picked up their chorus. “Go back, go back, go back, go back.”

And then another sound caught Nat’s ear, and he stopped short. It was the whistle of a bird. But it seemed out of place in the night. Nat had only heard that whistle during the day. His fingers tightened around the stick. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“I’m just imagining the sound,” Nat told himself after a moment of silence. “I’ve gotten jittery and my mind is playing tricks. I am acting like a child.” He strode forward again, this time humming a simple tune in his mind.

Then the bird’s whistle came again, this time from very close to his left.

And then there was one to his right, and one directly behind him. There was a rustle of leaves.

Oh, God, I’m not imagining, Nat thought. I’m being followed by—

Hands grabbed him then, throwing him to the ground, driving air from his lungs with a harsh grunt. His eyes slammed shut with the agony.

“Help!” he managed. A hand jerked his helmet off. A knee punched into his chest, throwing bright sparks of pain through his whole body. His head was yanked back by the hair. A hank of it ripped out at the roots. There were wails around him, screams ghastly and loud and triumphant. Nat’s arms were stretched out to the sides and pinned firmly to the ground.

He opened his eyes.

There, holding him like a helpless insect, were four Powhatan warriors. They were painted white and black, and their eyes twinkled in the dark. One had a club of stick and stone, and it was poised over Nat’s head.

They are going to smash my skull!

They all laughed at Nat. The sound was as cold as the blade of a dagger.

Nat screamed, knowing at the moment that he did it was a mistake because he was showing cowardice and that was enough to make him worthy of death.

The warriors laughed again, a sound that pierced the air like a devil’s cry. The one with the club raised it high, ready to bring it down.

God help me no I’m going to die!

And there was a flash of movement, and the club was knocked away. Nat gasped. He couldn’t see anything but two forms wrestling against the backdrop of black trees. His arms were released as the other warriors joined in the struggle. And then someone dropped over Nat’s body, protecting him.

One warrior shouted, and the one crouched over Nat snarled something back.

The warriors argued fiercely, but the one over Nat didn’t move. For many long minutes, there were heated words in native tongue, between the standing warriors and the one who sheltered Nat. At last the four standing Powhatans could be heard leaving, walking off into the darkness and muttering to themselves.

The form pulled away from Nat. Nat rubbed his eyes with his fists and with effort, drew his legs under himself and sat. It was then he could see clearly, even though the moon offered little assistance. Laughing Boy had saved him. He had risked his own reputation, his own life, for Nat.

Laughing Boy shook his head and made a soft, regretful sound and offered his hand to help Nat to his feet. Nat found his voice. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Laughing Boy, who Nat was certain knew no English, nodded and patted Nat on the shoulder. You’re welcome, the gesture said. He understood the words of appreciation.

Laughing Boy helped Nat to the edge of the woods but would go no farther. Nat waved good-bye and limped back to the fort. When he got to his cottage, William had awakened and the lantern was lit.

“What happened to you?” William asked. “You’ve got gashes all over, and your eye is swelling shut.”

Nat hesitated. He should say nothing, but he was so awed with what he had just experienced, he couldn’t keep quiet. “I was rescued in the woods,” he said. “I had gone for a midnight hunt and was attacked by four strong Powhatan warriors. They meant to bash in my brains, but another threw himself over me and would not let it happen.”

William’s eyes grew huge. “Indeed?” he said. “A savage saved your life?”

“Yes,” said Nat. He lay down on his mattress and pulled his deerskin over his shivering legs.

The following day, word of the rescue had spread. Even John Smith came to Nat’s cottage to speak to him about it.

“You were alone in the woods?” asked Smith, his arms crossed and his eyes narrow. “Who gave you permission?”

Nat answered, keeping his gaze downcast. “Forgive me, but with all the new arrivals and their dire conditions, I thought I might hunt a bit and bring in extra meat.”

Smith said nothing, but stroked his chin. He stared out of the cottage window, then looked back at Nat. “I was rescued in such a manner, too. Pocahontas laid her head on mine to keep her father from killing me.”

“That is amazing,” said Nat.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, sir, of course! I only mean that God was surely watching you!”

“Of course He was,” said Smith. “God likes me and has a special eye for me. How else could something like that happen?” He left the cottage.

He can’t tolerate that I have such an amazing story! Nat wrote hastily on a page. And now he makes my story his, and makes it more exciting that it is a princess and her father the Powhatan. Pompous! Self-important! And I hope the man never has chance to read my words.

But neither Nat’s tale nor Smith’s mattered much. There was work to do among the sick and dying of James Towne. Remembering the rescue made Nat feel grateful, and amid all the sadness, it gave him a sense of wonder.

He wrote, My friend saved my life. And he is no savage. His name is Laughing Man.